Accessible. Approachable. Astonishing.

He’s faded through the hullabaloo,
mutters more beer, more fun – his epitaph.
The tattooed knuckles no longer fist
a threat. My father’s head resting on
the table, mouthing a Johnny Cash song
that mists his glass, but empties mine.

Scribe

The ceiling’s low, he either stoops or cracks
his head. It moulds a humbleness of stature.

He pens the script by habit in black ink,
the magic of writing will clot his doubt.

He counts the letters, and utters every word.
A pause before the nests in dusty corners